The Heart is Slow to Learn
by Midasgirl
Summary: A rewrite of the Frederick Forsyth novel, the Phantom of Manhattan - Erik has fled to Manhattan to escape his memories of Christine, who has become a star; but a visit to Erik from Antoinette Giry could turn all their lives upside down forever.
1. Chapter I

A/N - Hi!! OK, now, this is probably the weirdest project I've ever undertaken, and I know it sounds arrogant, so please, bear with me :)

The first time I read the Phantom of Manhattan I was absolutely amazed. I just couldn't believe that this was the official commissioned sequel. But then I reread it, and I realised that a lot of its problems lay in the misrepresentations of the characters; I genuinely believe that there are scenes in it which could have been made very romantic, with proper handling, which Frederick Forsyth (as a thriller writer rather than a romantic one and a non-phan) lacked.

I have changed the story quite a lot; my largest manipulation is probably the presence of Antoinette Giry - I didn't like most of the own characters which were added to the book and I think that having another one of the characters we all know and love there would be a definite asset. (Plus, she's the only person who even comes close to having Erik's trust, and that's always useful :p) I have, however, retained the reporter and Father Joe, because I think they're probably integral to the entire plot.

For those of you who haven't read the book - well, you haven't missed much :p

The story so far: at the age of sixteen, Raoul de Chagny was emasculated in a shooting accident, and the presence of Madame Giry saved his life. (Point being, Raoul's incapable of fathering a child, and she knows that)

But now, thirteen years after the events at the Opera House, Christine is the Vicomtesse de Chagny and a world-famous diva with a son of twelve (Pierre). They travel with Meg as her maid and an Irish priest as a tutor to Pierre, Father Joe. Erik has moved to Manhattan and is currently taking the stock market by storm and raking in millions each week. He has a thoroughly untrustworthy and deranged servant called Darius, who is nevertheless indispensable to him because he knows Darius will stay loyal provided Erik keeps bringing in the money.

This first chapter, and, I confess, most of the following ones, are mainly from the point of view of Madame Giry (I just adore her!!) but Christine doesn't come in until the next chapter. This first chapter doesn't really have a great deal to do with the novel, it's just setting the scene, as it were ... Oh! And I suppose by the very nature of the plot of the novel, Erik has to be a little younger than any of the other versions set him - so I'm going to write him aged about fifty now, which would make him late thirties, early forties when the whole thing started. Yes, I know it sucks, but what can you do?

If you find any of them out of character, then please, do say so!! I'm a little unsure about this, so criticism is much appreciated and will be taken account of :)

__

"Why can't he see what he wants?

He wants the past undone.

Why can't he know what he wants?

His losing battles won,

To have never loved her, never known

How complete a loss can be ..."

"Quartet", The Secret Garden.

Antoinette Giry disembarked from the ship and handed her documents to the harassed-looking young man in a small office, who studied them for a moment, then handed them back to her.

"Thank you, Ma'am," he said with a loose American drawl. "Enjoy your stay now, y'hear?"

"Thank you," she said automatically in faintly accented English. "Tell me, where is the closest hotel to here?"

"That would be the MonteClaire," he replied, drawing a map across the desk towards him. "If y'go along Belleview Avenue, y'can catch a cab and they'll take you right there."

Antoinette studied him for a moment, then drew the map towards her. "Might I take this with me?" she asked, scanning the map quickly before returning her eyes to the young man's face. 

"Sure thing, ma'am."

"Thank you," she said again, gesturing to the porter carrying her bag to follow her as she turned and disappeared into the crowd. She cast a strange figure; a tall gaunt woman in a sombre black dress on a scorching New York summer's day among crowds of holiday makers and their children in garishly bright clothes.

***

Antoinette sank down into a hard chair with a high back and arms and let her hair down out of its customary tight bun. Her head was aching from the fierce sun and already she felt overwhelmed by this over-exuberant country and its noise, its dirt, and its throngs of mad people, all of whom talked too loudly and too fast. The sheer size of everything was disturbing, and the refined gentility of France seemed a long way away.

And now that she was here ..._what now?_ she thought dryly. It was all very well to make one's way halfway across the world as if on a pilgrimage ... but when one got there and discovered that their Mecca had been drowned in the noisy bustle of the street ...

She laughed suddenly with harsh self-reproach at her own folly. _Madness ... pure madness._ How to even begin her search for him in this country of millions upon millions, and even that assuming he had somehow slipped through the rigorous security at Elk Island ...

Antoinette sighed and sat back, resting her head against the hard back of the chair. She had a feeling that tomorrow was going to be a very long day.

***

Antoinette was up early, tired mentally and physically from a restless night and a series of faintly disturbing dreams which only served to heighten her vague sense of unease and forboding towards this bizarre new world in which she suddenly found herself trapped.

The maitre'd of the hotel watched her leave silently and disappear into the crowds which already swarmed through the streets of the city and shook his head with mild confusion. 

"That is one very odd lady," he remarked quietly to one of the maids.

She glanced at the lady in question and shrugged her shoulders.

"She's French," she said, as if that explained everything, and disappeared into a nearby room.

***

Antoinette sighed and rubbed her eyes, sore from her lack of sleep and the mercilessly bright sun. She had visited every police station, every registry department, every official place of any kind whatever, and nowhere had anyone heard of a gentleman named Erik Muhlheim, or seen anybody who wore a mask to conceal their face. It was hopeless, quite hopeless ... she must have been mad to think she could find him.

Nobody was better at hiding from a world in which they did not wish to live than Erik.

She glanced up and saw a sign reading _Delmonico's_ in old-fashioned copperplate printing; unlike almost everywhere else she had been today, there was nothing garish or flashy about it, and the building looked sedately cool and quiet - a welcome refuge after the gaudy bars and cheap restaurants which seemed to pervade the streets of New York.

She walked in and sat down slowly, smiling briefly at the waiter who introduced himself as Charlie Delmonico to take her order.

When he returned with a cool pitcher of iced tea, she asked, through sheer force of habit, the same question she had been asking all day, with little hope of success.

"Excuse me, Monsieur ... I am searching for information about a gentleman whom I believe to be residing in this city. Does the name Erik Muhlheim mean anything to you?"

The man glanced sharply at her. 

"Muhlheim? Perhaps ..." Her expression changed, and he seemed to soften. "There's a skyscraper on Park Row," he said quietly. "The E.M. Tower - have you seen it yet?"

She shook her head.

"No matter, you will know it when you see it. It might, perhaps, be true that a somewhat reclusive gentleman named Erik Muhlheim is the proprietor of the company - that is, if the urban rumours are to be believed." 

Antoinette barely heard her reply over the sudden ringing in her ears. Dropping an exorbitant amount of money onto the table, she rose to her feet and withdrew her map.

"Park Row?" she asked.

***

The map was worse than useless, she thought irritably a few minutes later. In a city as large as Manhattan, she would have expected some form of signposting; although, she reflected waspishly, if their signposts were as good as their maps ...

"Are you lost, ma'am?"

She looked up sharply and found a man, about her own age, dressed in a suit and carrying a case under his arm looking down on her.

"It's easily done," he said kindly, taking her silence as confirmation. "Where are you trying to get to?"

Antoinette cleared her throat. "Park Row, I believe."

"You're not far wrong, ma'am ... it's just a few streets away." He glanced at her map with sudden contempt. "God, that thing's utterly useless - it's a tourist map, it won't show you anything of any real value in the city. Come on ... I pass Park Row myself, I'll show you the way."

Antoinette stared at him for a moment before nodding briefly in acceptance. The one thing which continually took her aback about the Americans was their friendliness; in France, she knew, she would have been quietly and courteously ignored by all and sundry, and she would not have dreamed of asking for help. But here ... here everything was upside down and inside out and nothing made sense._ The perfect country for a Phantom undercover, really ..._

"Thank you," she said quietly.

Park Row was, indeed, only a few streets away; and, as Charlie Delmonico had said, once on it, she could hardly miss the immense tower which reared up seemingly to the sky. But that was not what made her catch her breath in her throat; a sudden, fierce flash of recognition sparked in her mind. The tower itself was alien to her; taller than anything she had ever seen in France, and a strange shape. But the loggia ... the loggia over the front was almost identical to that which crowned the Opera Garnier ... the entire building a shadow of the theatre in small, subtly indistinguishable ways, and yet retaining a certain obscure originality.

"Forgive me," she said quietly, laying a hand on her companion's lower arm. "Could you tell me who owns that building?"

The gentleman looked at her in surprise.

"Why, that's the E.M. Tower, ma'am," he replied. "No one is exactly sure who owns it ... the gentleman behind the money is said to be very rich and very reclusive." He trailed off at the expression on her face, then hastened to reassure her. "It's probably all urban legend, of course - the likelihood is that the company has some rather dodgy operating practices it would prefer to keep quiet and in doing so likes to keep a rather low profile."

Antoinette released him, nodding her head. "Thank you," she murmured absently, refolding the map automatically as she stared up at the building, so reminiscent of the Paris Opera she couldn't understand how it could have been overlooked by this country of millions.

She drew a deep breath and stepped up to the door.

***

There came a sharp rap on the door, giving Erik time to rapidly push the framed portrait he had been studying under a sheaf of papers and draw a few towards him as if he truly were studying the state of his shares.

Darius entered the room silently, his face, as always, bone white and utterly devoid of expression.

"Master ..." Erik glanced up as if seeing him for the first time.

"Yes?"

"There is a lady downstairs who requests an audience with you."

Erik laughed shortly. "Impossible. Send her away."

Darius appeared unfazed. "She anticipated that response and asked me to tell you that if it would encourage you, she would request the time of _le fantome de l'Opera_ as opposed to Monsieur Erik Muhlheim."

Erik stiffened, his eyes moving instinctively to the portrait he had quickly slipped out of sight under the pile of documents.

"What does she look like?"

Darius' cold eyes registered faint surprise at the urgent undertone in his usually apathetic master's voice, but his voice was as calmly controlled as ever as he replied,

"I couldn't say. I have not seen the lady myself - the doorkeeper requested she be brought to your attention."

Erik swallowed hard, his mind racing as he flicked a hand with what he hoped came across as careless detachment. 

"Very well," he managed through the sudden lump in his throat. "Show her up."

He rose swiftly from the table and poured himself a stiff brandy. For once, he was glad of the mask - this unthinkable meeting after so long would doubtless stir emotion he had been trying, however unsuccessfully, to extinguish for the past thirteen years ... he could not bear for her to view his pain yet again. This time he _would_ remain in control.

Perhaps it would have paid to have been watching Darius at that moment; a vague unease might have crept over him at the coldness of his servant's eyes as he watched his master fight to control the tremor of his hands.

***

There came a knock on the door and Erik rose instantly, taking an automatic step toward the door before he remembered himself and moved back.

Darius stepped into the room, followed by a woman.

For a moment, all that registered was that she was not Christine, and the sudden disappointment was so acute, so very nearly unbearable, that a wave of dizziness swept over him and for a moment he thought he might faint. He gripped hold of a chair back, clenching his fingers around the wood with a force fit to splinter it, fighting to remain in control. 

"Madame Giry," he said finally. "What a surprise."

Antoinette's eyes swept impassively over him. She had not missed his initial reaction to her entrance, and it suddenly occurred to her who he must have thought his caller was. _A woman who knew his past ..._

"So I was right," she said softly. "I knew it had to be you."

He laughed, the sound forced and strained, and sank down into a chair, gesturing for her to do the same.

"It had to be me?" he questioned.

She nodded. "Who else would build a skyscraper so reminiscent of an opera house?"

He laughed again, this time sounding more genuine. "Ah, you spotted it. I must admit, I have been rather surprised that no one in this entire city has noticed the similarity - but then, the Americans have a notorious lack of culture and the rumours surrounding the place are of course infinitely more interesting than its architecture."

"Mmm," Antoinette agreed briefly, rising and crossing the room to look out of the window. "It is a beautiful building, though ... certainly impressive."

There was a short moment of silence, before Erik rose, albeit a little unsteadily, and crossed the room to the drinks cabinet. 

"You must forgive me, I am forgetting my manners. May I offer you a drink?"

She shook her head. "Thank you, no."

"Where are you staying?" he asked suddenly, pouring himself a small brandy and sipping at it.

"At the MonteClaire," she replied. 

"Oh, that's ridiculous," he said quietly. "There are spare rooms here, there's no need for you to be staying in a second-rate hotel like that." He paused briefly. "How long were you planning to stay in the country?"

She shrugged. "I'm not sure ... there are no definite plans at present."

He looked at her for a moment, then nodded and turned away. "You are of course welcome to stay here for as long as you wish," he said quietly.

"Thank you," she murmured.

There was a brief pause before Erik turned back to her and gestured towards a chair.

"Do sit down," he said with a sudden forced formality. "I suppose I should ask you what brings you to America."

She glanced at him. "I'm not quite sure, really ... a whim, I suppose. I retired from the Opera just over a year ago ..."

He laughed softly, without malice. "So I would imagine the corps de ballet are now running wild and endorsing their slightest whims ... it's rather a shame they don't have a resident ghost any longer, that could prove somewhat amusing."

She smiled. "Quite ... from what I hear, the ballet is in a deplorable state at present, probably not helped by the fact that Monsieur Firmin retired a few months after I did, but Monsieur Andre is still there ..."

"And Meg?"

The question came so neatly that, but for the faintest tremor of his voice; or was it the restless movement of his hand upon the desk? she might not have realised the implications of her answer.

"Meg is a lady's maid now," she replied, selecting her words carefully. "She remained a dancer at the Opera Populaire for two years after your departure, until she suffered a fall and her right knee was permanently damaged. She will never dance again, but she makes a living nonetheless."

"A good family?" he asked quietly.

She looked him full in the face for the first time. 

"Why do you ask me these things?" she asked finally. "Why ask, when it is so clear you are already aware of the answer?"

He rose and crossed the room, turning away from her to stare out the window. She continued speaking to the rigid back, not missing the tremor of his hands as he moved to open the window and catch a sparrow which perched on the sill.

"Yes, Meg is the maid to Christine de Chagny."

He remained silent, gazing out the window to the sun setting across the bay. 

Antoinette sighed, her anger dissipating into lingering sorrow.

"Thirteen years, Erik ..." she said softly. "Isn't that long enough?"

He turned slowly back to face her.

"Thirteen years ... it doesn't sound such a long time when you put it in years. Days, though ... four thousand, seven hundred and forty five of them ..."

He sighed and raked a hand back through his hair, and she was suddenly aware that he was making a massive effort to contain himself and regain his composure.

"What number suite are you in at the MonteClaire?" he asked finally. "I'll have someone sent over to collect your luggage directly."

***

Antoinette turned over and stared at the ceiling, black in the darkness. Somewhere, buried deep under all the layers of guilt which were slowly suffocating her, was the question of what would genuinely be best for all concerned. She had no doubts that Christine desperately wanted her child's paternity kept a secret, perhaps with good cause; but did Erik deserve to know? Surely, if she could relieve even a little of his intense personal suffering, it would be worth it ...?

Antoinette sat up and massaged her aching temples. Her customary insomnia, sporadic and occasionally shaken in France, had returned with a vengeance and this was not the first night she had sat awake thinking far too much of things which would have been better left forgotten.

She leaned forward and sighed faintly. Her mind insisted on replaying her conversation with Erik, over and over, until all she could hear was his voice, on the verge of suppressed tears, murmuring Christine's name as though he feared to break it.

She rose and paced the room, touching her fingers to the walls as if to reassure herself that she retained some grip on normality; her utter physical exhaustion had driven her almost to distraction in the last day or two, and now, when she so desperately wanted to sleep ...

She laughed softly. Erik never slept, she knew that much; haunted by nightmares which plagued his subconscious whenever pure physical exhaustion knocked him out, he had always survived on amazingly little sleep. His insomnia had always worried her slightly, not least because he invariably refused to discuss it with something more than his customary stubborn indifference towards his own health and problems - if she had learnt one thing about Erik in all the years of their bizarre acquaintance, it was that if he was avoiding a subject, it was for a very good reason.

She continued to pace the room, her mind ceaselessly revolving around the two young people whose lives she held unwittingly in the balance; neither of them fully aware of the consequences should she tell what she knew.

Suddenly she stopped, her mind drawn out of her reverie by - what? A sound of some description ... she listened intently for a moment or two, and the sound came again - a sob, almost a whimper, the sound of a human soul in fear or agony.

Antoinette drew a dressing gown on and slipped out of her room into the dark corridor, pausing outside the next room as a sharp intake of breath, almost a sob, found its way through the door.

She opened the door very cautiously, unsure of what she might find therein. It took her eyes a moment to adjust to the dark, until she realised that it was a bedroom; large, surprisingly bare, with uncurtained windows, a bare floor which seemed to stretch on forever, and a small Spartan bed pressed up against the far wall with a single thin blanket crumpled on it.

She glanced around the room, her eyes settling on the windowseat. Against the backdrop of the night sky, silhouetted by the moon shining in through the window, a figure crouched, his body shaking with uncontrollable sobs, his fingers clenched tightly around something small and unyielding. 

"Erik?" she whispered, taking a step further into the room.

He started violently and sprang up with a speed that defied imagination. Whatever he had been clinging to so desperately - a picture frame, she could see now - slipped from his grasp and landed on the floor with the sound of glass shattering. He knelt to retrieve it, brushing shards of glass away from the frame before dissolving helplessly into tears again and raising his hands to cover his face.

"Get out!" he managed, turning away from her as if to conceal his grief. 

"Oh, Erik ..." she breathed, moving to kneel beside him. He jerked away from her touch, one arm rising as if in defence. Gently, she took the frame from him and brushed away the few remaining diamonds of glass, noting the picture of Christine it held without any great surprise, and the spots of blood where he had evidently cut himself on the broken glass.

"It can be repaired," she said gently, touching him lightly on the shoulder. "I'll send it off tomorrow, if you like."

He twisted away from her, hopelessly trying to cover his face. 

"_Please ..._" he wept, the blood from his fingers staining the mask. "Just _go,_ will you?"

"Don't be absurd," she said quietly. "Of course I'm not going to leave you on your own when you're like this. Just try and calm down a little, all right?"

It took about half an hour for him to calm down enough to regain a little of his customary reticence.

"My apologies," he said very quietly, standing up and crossing to the window. "That was a display I would rather you hadn't seen."

She shook her head. "It doesn't matter, Erik ..." She wondered suddenly if this was a regular occurrence; for him to sit up all night weeping, then pull himself together in time for his facade of invulnerability to be preserved in front of his staff in the morning.

She stood up and crossed the room to stand beside him. 

"This," she said quietly, tapping the broken picture frame, "will do you no good at all."

He laughed bitterly, a certain agreement in his tone. "How puerile," he said quietly, every word loaded with contempt and self-loathing. "A grown man still dreaming after a chorus girl ..." He turned sharply away from her, and poured himself a glass of brandy from a decanter on a nearby table, downing it somewhat more rapidly that he should have. He laughed slightly, passing one hand across the mask and down the good side of his face. 

"Thirteen years," he said softly. "How ineffably pathetic."

Antoinette stood up and touched him lightly on the shoulder. He remained motionless, staring forward at nothing, but she could imagine exactly what he was seeing.

Finally he wrenched his mind back to the present and turned to face his former box-keeper.

"When was the last time you saw her?" he asked, finally abandoning all pretence.

"Erik ..."

"Please."

There was a long moment of heavy silence before Antoinette turned away and poured a glass of water from a carafe on the table. Her voice came, flat and resigned, as if from a distance.

"Just under a year ago. She returned briefly to Paris for a charity gala at the Opera, and I called on Meg."

"She is happy?" 

"Meg? Yes, she is quite content, I believe."

"_Antoinette_!" The depth of emotion in his voice made her catch her breath, even before it occurred to them both that he had, for the first time in their bizarre acquaintance, addressed her by her Christian name.

He turned abruptly and crossed the room to stand by the window once more.

"Please," he said, very softly.

Antoinette closed her eyes on tears. "I'm sorry, Erik ..." she murmured. "Why must you make me tell you things which can only hurt you?"

She felt him shake his head; whether in response to her or simply as a measure of containing himself she would never know.

"Tell me about the child," he requested abruptly, turning away from her and once more taking up his stance at the window.

__

As if he had read her mind ... Antoinette glanced sharply up at him, but his eyes were fixed on the distant bay, dappled in the moonlight, and she had a sneaking suspicion that he had no idea what he was truly asking, merely seeking to buy himself a little time to compose himself and ensure he would not break down again.

"He is a lovely boy," she said finally. "Very much like his mother. He is ... very handsome ..." She watched the pain slide across Erik's face before he turned away and downed another glass of brandy with alarming speed.

"Like his father?" he asked, the depth of bitterness in his voice audible even above the strangling detachment he was trying to force.

"No," she replied quietly. "Very little like his father."

There was a long silence.

"God!" he laughed shortly. "That bastard really does have everything, doesn't he?"

Antoinette sighed at the unconscious irony. "He has less than you might imagine," she said quietly, the guilt closing in again.

Erik turned back briefly to face her, and she cursed inwardly to see tears glistening unshed in his eyes.

"He has Christine," he said finally, turning back to stare out the window. "She is everything."

His voice cracked on her name, and he turned hastily away from Antoinette, one hand reaching up to cover his face, the other gripping the table for support.

And in that one moment, when the emotion threatened, for the second time in one night, to overwhelm him, Antoinette made the snap decision which would turn the entire world upside down for her pair of star-crossed lovers, and alter the lives of those around them beyond all recognition.

"Erik ..." she said quietly, laying a hand on his arm and feeling him stiffen at the touch. "Sit down. There's something I have to tell you."

To be continued ...


	2. Chapter II

A/N - What can I say? I feel desperately guilty; it's been an inordinate length of time since I've updated this, despite all the lovely reviews and emails I've received urging its continuation. My only excuse is an entirely absent muse (a curse from which I know many of you suffer yourselves) and I can only hope for forgiveness from all my lovely readers.

Huge thanks to all my lovely reviewers, and especially to Stemwinder, whose review it was that finally made me sit up and kick my muse into touch! Thanks, guys :)

So - for the first time in about a year - an update ... and to make up for the ridiculous time lag, a nice long E/C chapter with lots of Erik!!

Love and hugs :)

Antoinette was up early again the next morning. Greeted with chilly politeness by Erik's disconcertingly cold servant, Darius, her inquiries as to where she might find Erik proved as fruitless as they had the day before. Unnerved by Darius' cold manner, she couldn't tell whether he knew where Erik was, and was just being difficult, or if Erik really had left early that morning with no clues left as to when he might return. Either seemed equally probable, and equally unlikely.

She retreated to her room, and wrote a long and convoluted letter to Meg which she knew she would never send.

Finally, driven almost to distraction by the unnerving quiet of the house, she ventured again into Erik's room, noting with surprise a fresh sheaf of paper on the table. She idly took up a sheet and glanced over it, noticing without any real surprise that it was music, hand-written, startlingly complex. Her eyes rested on the staves; a soprano line and a tenor line ... _so he was still composing for her ..._

She sighed, suddenly depressed. His rooms were a veritable shrine to Christine's memory - newspaper clippings, portraits ... endless sheets of music written for her voice ... and yet the whole effect was faintly sad, the unswerving devotion of a man who knew that her name and face in one dimensional black and white were as close as he would ever get to her again.

She wondered suddenly if, had she known this was how it would turn out, she would have left him alone to die as he had wished that last night. She had thought he would be able to recover from the blow Christine had dealt him - to start a new life, perhaps even return to the real world ... she had never imagined that he would spend the next thirteen years a slave to her memory, waiting only for death to set him free ...

She closed her eyes, finally succumbing to the inevitable headache, before replacing the sheet of music on the desk and leaving the room, closing the door behind her.

__

~ One week later ~

Christine bit her lip. She closed the score and laid it on the table beside her, rubbing one hand across her face, tangling her hair. She rose and began to pace the room, clasping her hands, picking up random objects and toying with them nervously.

It was the music, of course. No one else wrote music like that, music which made her ache to sing it, music you could taste even as you read it in script form. No one before, no one since. Not the easy genius of Mozart, not the dark violence of Wagner, but emotion ... so much emotion, liquid sound.

__

But how? How was it possible?

On a sudden whim, she looked out into the corridor and called Meg in as the closest relative of the only woman who might be able to help.

She sought briefly for a pretext and finally settled on, "Where's Pierre?"

Meg smiled indulgently. "He's outside. Do you want him?"

Christine nodded over an ache in her throat. Yes .. suddenly she wanted him desperately; these days she was beginning increasingly to cling to him as all she had left of his father.

"Oh, and Meg ..."

Meg turned back, her head tilted to one side, questioning.

"Why don't we have your mother down for afternoon tea one day?" She could hear the artifice in her voice and hated herself for it.

Meg furrowed her brow slightly, puzzled. She had known Christine for long enough to know when she was being evasive. But she hadn't been this secretive ... not since the affair at the Opera Populaire ...

"My mother's gone to America, Christine. Did I not show you her letter?"

"America?" The surprise in Christine's voice was real, and the disappointment even more so; if even Madame Giry was now beyond her reach, who was there left to advise her ...?

Meg was still staring at her in puzzlement. "Shall I fetch Pierre?" she prompted gently.

Christine flapped a hand distractedly. "Yes, yes ... please do."

Meg came across to her and gently took her friend's arm, steering her to sit down. "Here, have a seat," she urged anxiously, concerned at Christine's lack of colour. "Shall I fetch you a drink?"

"No ... no." Christine pulled herself together with an effort and smiled up at her friend, passing a hand across her face to tuck a lock of hair back into place. "Would you ... fetch Pierre for me, Meg?"

Meg nodded and made her way out, still confused, faintly concerned. Christine could hear her calling to Pierre as she went out, her voice becoming fainter as she disappeared down the corridor.

Soon her son entered; bright and exuberant, and nothing like his father ...

"Pierre!" she said with real relief, moving across the room to take him into her arms. "Sweetheart ... how would you like to go to America?"

"America?" Pierre twisted round to look at her. "Really?"

"Yes. Would you like that?"

"Oh, _yes_!"

Christine laid her cheek flat against the top of her son's head and took up the hand-written note that had accompanied the score. 

"Very well then," she murmured. "It's settled." 

***

Antoinette stormed into Erik's room and threw a folded newspaper down onto his desk.

"What is this?" she asked in a dangerously quiet voice.

Erik glanced up from his paperwork and cast a cursory glance over the newspaper, folded open to the two-inch tall headline:

**__**

Opera diva Christine Daaé to cross Atlantic to star in new opera!

"Facetious little man, isn't he," he said quietly, dropping the paper back onto the desk. "So much fuss over an opera ..."

"Is he right?" Antoinette demanded, unreasonably infuriated by his predictably calm attitude. "Have you called her here?"

Erik didn't look up. "I believe Hammerstein has been dealing with casting ... it's none of my concern."

"_Erik!_"

He sighed, capped his pen, and laid it down neatly on his desk, finally looking up at her. "Yes, I've called her here," he said coolly. "I need a soprano - she happens to be just what the opera needs."

"Just what the opera needs?" Antoinette echoed disbelievingly. She turned away, shaking her head. "What do you want from her?"

"That's a remarkably jaded question, Antoinette," he said coolly. "I'm a composer, she happens to be one of the finest sopranos in the world."

"A fact which is largely if not entirely due to you!"

He glanced over the paper again and laid it back down on the desk. "You flatter me, madame. Quite how I can be responsible for her career when she and I have had no contact for the past thirteen years somehow escapes me; perhaps you would like to credit me with Nellie Melba's successes as well?"

"Why must you make this so difficult?" she asked suddenly. "Why can't you ever just give a question a straight answer; why must everything you say be in riddles?"

"No riddle, madame," he said flatly. "I fail to see why it is a matter of such agitation to you that I should employ the woman who is perhaps the finest soprano in the world to open my new opera for me."

There was a long silence.

"She is very happily married, Erik," Antoinette said quietly. "If any harm should come to Raoul or Pierre through this ..."

"The newspaper article does not state whether or not they will be accompanying her," Erik said icily. "It is entirely possible that she may choose to travel alone. And if they should choose to join her, I may assure you now that Raoul de Chagny and I will have no contact whatsoever." He took up his pen and began to write again. "There is no one in this world I wish to encounter less."

Antoinette stared at him for a moment, then turned to leave. "Tread carefully, Erik," she said quietly, closing the door silently behind her.

***

Christine heard a knock on her door, and the Irish priest who travelled with them as her son's tutor poked his friendly grizzled head round the door.

"We're almost in, Madame. Best get yourself ready - there's quite a crowd there from what I've heard." He smiled. "Are you nervous?"

"Nervous!" Christine laughed, trying to cover her apprehension. "I'm terrified. I've never even been to America before - I couldn't bear it if my debut was a disaster!"

Father Joe cast a shrewd glance at her and entered the little room, closing the door behind him. "Are you sure that's all?" he asked gently. "Nothing else you want to get off your chest?"

Christine laughed nervously and moved away from him, picking up a scarf which she had discarded over the back of a chair and smoothing it against her, holding it to her breast as a shield.

"Oh no!" she said, too quickly, her smile a little too wide. "I'm ... just a little jumpy, I suppose."

Father Joe remained silent and grave for a moment, then nodded briefly.

"As you like it, Madame Christine." There was a brief pause, then he smiled again, and she felt herself forgiven. "I'll send Meg in to finish packing up."

Christine turned away to fold the scarf into a trunk, and Father Joe left the room, closing the door quietly behind him, and catching sight of Meg's bright blonde head bouncing along the corridor.

"Meg, pet, you're wanted to finish the packing up. We'll be landing fairly soon, they say."

Meg beamed, her eyes alight with excitement. "I can't wait," she admitted. "I think I'm a little giddy with nerves!"

Father Joe caught hold of her arm and turned her to face him. "Calm yourself," he said with uncharacteristic firmness. "Madame Christine is not herself; I don't want you making her more nervous than she already is."

Meg looked up into his face and nodded, sobered by the usually jovial priest's unlooked-for gravity.

He released her arm and smiled again. "Go on, then," he said with a nod towards Christine's dressing room. Meg hurried into the room, and before the door closed behind her, he heard her greet Christine with carefully measured solemnity. He smiled, and made his way down the long corridor to his own cabin, closing the door behind him, and sitting down on the bed to think.

He had been with Christine and Raoul several years now, and, as their sole confessor, was one of very few people in the world who knew the truth of what had happened at the Opera Populaire thirteen years ago. Their chequered past had only strengthened his loyalty to them; he had long since taken it upon himself to ensure that their lives ran smoothly and without the angst they had become so unintentionally entangled in so many years ago. So far he had been very successful. He ensured that Christine never had to deal with the problems which are so common below stairs (it had been he who had managed the matter of the under-housemaid's potentially scandalous pregnancy with the minimum of fuss and worry to his mistress), and that the servants all knew that any trouble was brought to him first, and Christine second.

But now he was afraid.

He had seen the hand-written note which had accompanied the opera score which had driven Christine to break her vow to never cross the Atlantic. And he had also recognised - which Christine perhaps had not - the undercurrent of deep emotion underlying the seemingly formal words.

Thirteen years is not such a very long time, after all.

***

Erik paced the rooftop feverishly, his black cloak billowing out behind him in the wind. The crisp winter air bit at his exposed cheek, and the growing nausea of nerves in his stomach threatened to overwhelm him.

He glanced back over at the port and slammed his fist against the wall in acute frustration. The ship had been docked for what seemed like hours - _what was the hold-up_?

He closed his eyes fiercely, and tried to draw a deep breath. A roar went up from the crowd assembled in the harbour, and his eyes flew open. The gangplank had been let down, and a solitary figure, recognisable as a priest by his dress, stepped out onto it, closely followed by - 

His heart thudded.

She looked positively radiant; wrapped up closely against the cold, her hair pinned tightly back under her hat, her cloak blowing backwards in the wind, her smile lighting the sky as she raised one hand to wave to the assembled crowds. The priest took her hand and guided her gently down to the red carpet which awaited her, the band on the shore beginning to play _La Marsellaise_ - Erik barely even noticing the inadequacy of the second violin - as she made her way up to the podium which had been erected for her arrival. 

He closed his eyes over a sudden pounding headache and a paralysing wave of dizziness. For a moment, he thought he might faint ... to be so close to her, _after all this time ..._

He stared at her with helpless longing, his heart wrenching as every memory of her came flooding back, her voice, her smile ... her lips over his ...

He closed his eyes and shook his head violently, knowing what little good thinking like that could possibly do him.

He took a step backwards until he could feel the reassuring solidity of the wall behind him. He had missed her so much ... more than he'd ever dreamed possible.

He saw her glance around briefly, flash a radiant smile at the crowd, and reach out to take Oscar Hammerstein's hand. A sudden and utterly unexpected wave of irrational and unreasonable jealousy swept over him, and he closed his hand around a pillar until the rough stone calmed the rising nausea.

She stepped up apprehensively to the podium and brushed back a loose lock of hair from her face in a gesture he still remembered.

"I would like to thank you all," she began in lightly-accented English, "for being here today. This is a very ..." she sought a word and looked round to Hammerstein for help. He murmured something in her ear and she flashed him a grateful smile before continuing. "A very important day for me, as I have never before visited this country; as you can tell, my English is not as it should be!"

There was a ripple of laughter, and Erik felt his heart wrench with helpless adoration for her.

"I am very much looking forward to performing what is a very beautiful new opera in this lovely opera house, and ..." she gave a little smile, "I hope that I will not disappoint!"

There was a roar of spontaneous approval from the crowd. Erik sank back against the cold stone of the wall in silent relief; his greatest fear had been that she would be badly received. As he did so, he caught the flare of sunlight on glass and looked sharply up. On the roof of the adjoining building stood a man, looking at him with undisguised curiosity through a pair of binoculars. Erik swore inwardly at the Fate which forbade him to watch her for even a few moments and disappeared down a concealed stairwell into his own building.

He made his way slowly back to his room and sank down into a hard-backed chair, breathing deeply for the first time in what seemed like hours.

She was back.

***

Oscar Hammerstein strolled happily along the corridor of the Manhattan Opera, whistling _La Marsellaise_. 

"Hammerstein."

Oscar glanced into a side office with surprise, and smiled to see his usually silent financial backer seated within, long elegant fingers steepled together on the table.

"Erik!" He entered the room and offered his hand, which Erik ignored. "I take it you saw the arrival? It all went off beautifully ..."

Erik nodded curtly. "Yes, I saw it. Where is the lady now?"

"She's gone to her hotel to freshen up and have a rest, I believe." He smiled at the memory. "She really is a charming woman, you know, Erik ..."

Erik made an impatient gesture with one elegant hand. "Tell me, Hammerstein ... I see that she has brought a priest with her, and a maid; but I did not see her husband or her son." It was with some surprise that Oscar noticed Erik's hand clenched tightly around the back of a chair, betraying his tension. "Are they not to accompany her?"

"The boy is here," Oscar began, carefully watching his notoriously volatile partner's face for any sign of adverse reaction. "Her husband, I believe, has some business to attend to in Paris, but will be with us within the week."

There was a brief moment of silence, and then Erik nodded. "I had expected something of the sort. Very well, Hammerstein, carry on."

Oscar remained where he was, watching Erik with concerned regard, noticing the tremor of his hands. "Erik ... are you all right? You seem a little ... tense."

Erik drew his cloak over his shoulders. "I will be at rehearsal tomorrow," he said coldly, giving no sign that he had registered Oscar's words at all. "I shall expect all the cast to be present."

He strode out of the room without registering Oscar's goodbye, and when, a moment later, Oscar left the room himself, Erik had disappeared.

***

Erik left rehearsal the next day preoccupied and worried. Christine had looked exhausted, and performed as poorly as she had ever done; evidently she was still tired from her long journey.

He made his way through one of his many hidden passages to her dressing room, unsure what he would say or even whether he would have the courage to go in, but desperate to see her face to face again.

He tapped lightly on the door, but no reply came from within. Concerned, he opened the door cautiously and looked in.

The sight within made his heart stop; almost without knowing it, he stepped inside the room and closed the door silently behind him.

Christine lay curled on a couch, sound asleep, one hand tucked beneath her cheek, the other resting on her waist.

Her face looked pale, framed by clouds of tangled dark hair, and, her face relaxed in sleep, she looked not a day older than the day he had first seen her creep onto the stage of the Opera Populaire and almost unbearably beautiful.

She shifted slightly in her sleep, turning her face towards the pillow, her hand trailing over the full skirt of her costume.

Silently he moved across the richly carpeted floor until at last he knelt beside the couch, his head pounding and his hands shaking at the sudden sensation of having her so close once again, and after so long.

Against the logic of his mind, which in truth would never have let him come here in the first place, he reached up and touched his fingers lightly to her hair with all the tenderness he had been too afraid to show last time.

She nuzzled into his touch, her eyes still closed.

"Raoul?" she murmured drowsily, her lips curving into a sleepy smile.

A heartbeat of utter numbness while his mind refused to register her words, then his heart wrenched with paralysing, breathtaking agony, making him take an unwitting step back from the couch.

He was gone in an instant, leaving Christine half awake and with a sudden emptiness in her chest and the uncomfortably familiar sensation of almost unbearable loneliness.


	3. Chapter III

A/N - Those of you who have read the novel will notice that I've dropped the mirrored room scene as a setting for Erik and Christine's first meeting; this is because other people have written it so beautifully, and I just found it impossible to write in that setting (for the ultimate rewriting, I can only point you in the direction of Crysania's beautiful version: )

Narsil: Oh no, Madame Giry did tell him ... we just skipped forward in the narrative. His finding out about Pierre was the catalyst which brought him to send for Christine; and sometime, probably next chapter, they're going to have to discuss it ...

T'eyla Minh: Ouch! Don't poke me! More meanness to Erik ensues, I'm afraid ...

Huggles and thanks to all those who reviewed! Love you all :)

Father Joe smiled and dismissed the small dark-haired American maid. She left the sitting room quietly, closing the door behind her. He glanced out of the window, and sat down in the chair, taking out a book he had been reading.

He looked up as there came a knock on the door, and Christine nervously poked her head around the door. 

"Father ..." she greeted him nervously.

He stood up and closed his book, gesturing for her to come in.

"What can I do for you, Madame Christine?" he asked.

She came shyly into the room and stood still for a few moments, looking around. Father Joe waited.

Finally she turned to him with a strange light of resolution in her eyes.

"Father," she said. "Do you remember, when you first came to us, that I told you I had not been entirely honest in my confession - that there were things in my past I was not yet ready to tell?"

Father Joe nodded assent. He had been expecting this ever since the arrival of the hand-written manuscript which had affected Christine badly enough to bring them across the Atlantic. 

"I remember."

Christine nodded restlessly. "But now, I am ready." She sat down, her face pale but determined. "Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned."

Father Joe sat down opposite her and made the sign of the cross. "Tell me of your sin, my child."

Christine stood up again and began restlessly to pace the room. "It was thirteen years ago," she began, twisting her hands together. She looked up suddenly. "Do you remember what I told you of the Phantom of the Opera?"

Father Joe nodded.

Christine gave a little distracted half-smile. "What I told you was a fairly incomplete version, but I daresay Meg was only too happy to fill you in on the details."

Father Joe bowed his head in abashed assent, and Christine laughed. "Never mind, Father ... it doesn't matter. She will not have told you anything that I would not have wished her to."

She resumed her pacing. "I was not entirely honest with you then," Christine continued. "I did not tell you of the circumstances which led to the birth of my son. You see ... Raoul is not Pierre's father."

Father Joe kept his face impassive, despite his surprise. This was not what he had been expecting ...

"How can you be so sure, child?" he asked gently.

"Raoul is ... unable to have children," Christine replied, flushing slightly. "A shooting accident when he was young has prevented him from ever ..." She coloured. "He is unable to sire children," she repeated.

Father Joe nodded again, and motioned for her to sit down.

"Am I to take it then that the Opera Ghost - Erik? - is Pierre's father?"

Christine looked away, colouring deeply. 

"Yes," she said, very quietly. "It was late one night, after a performance; Erik had taken me out for dinner and then for a walk in the park in the moonlight." She looked up, suddenly animated. "You must understand how much this meant, Father," she said earnestly, leaning forward a little in her chair and pressing his hand. "Erik was always ... so uncomfortable around people ... it meant so much that he was willing to brave that for me. 

"We returned home very late - I was accustomed to stay in his house during the run of a performance, you see ... it was easier and more pleasant for both of us than my having to return to a cold flat would have been. In my own separate bedroom," she added hastily, seeing the look on Father Joe's face. "It was always very proper." Once again, colour flooded her cheeks. "Until that night," she whispered, looking down at her hands.

There was a long pause, in which the only sound was the tortuously slow tick of the grandfather clock in the hall.

Christine cleared her throat and continued. "It was very late, but I just wasn't tired - I think I was still a bit overexcited from the success of the performance. And Erik, well -" she gave a short laugh, "- I don't think Erik ever slept while I was in the house." She cleared her throat again. "So we stayed up, and talked ... played a game of chess ... he wouldn't allow me to sing, he didn't want my voice put under any extra strain, but he played for me, and then -" she stopped abruptly, silence rising up and filling the room.

Father Joe gently reached out and took one of Christine's hands, enclosing it in both of his.

She looked up into his face. "He did not force me," she said in a very clear, quiet little voice. "He did not force me, and he did not take advantage of me." She sighed and tangled a fist in her hair. "I thought that ... that because he loved me so, and I him, that God would forgive ... that He would understand." She shook her head fiercely and looked up into Father Joe's face. "But I know now that I was wrong. It was a sin." She stood up and walked away from Father Joe. "Raoul knew all about it when I agreed to marry him," she said quietly. "He would not stand by and see me dishonoured, even though I so thoroughly deserved it." She sighed. "He has never mentioned it since; he looks upon Pierre quite as his own. He ... he did not know Erik as I did. He could never have understood."

There fell a silence, and Christine broke it by a nervous little strained laugh. "So, there you have it," she said with an attempt at flippancy. "My full and true confession."

"Forgive me, child ..." Father Joe leaned forward in his chair and took Christine's hands again. "You speak very well of him. Was there never any plan that the two of you should be married?"

"Oh ..." Christine looked up, suddenly looking confused. "No ... I ..." She sighed. "I did believe, at that time, that marriage would be the natural course we would follow. But ..." she stopped abruptly.

"But?" prompted Father Joe gently.

Christine stood up stiffly and crossed the room, standing with her back to the priest for what seemed like a very long time. When she finally turned back to him, he was distressed to see her face tear-streaked.

"But he never asked me," she said, very quietly.

When Christine and Father Joe left the room separately half an hour later, they both went straight to their respective bedrooms to think.

Father Joe was deeply troubled by all that Christine had told him; not, of course, by the sin itself, a sin of which he had absolved numerous women of all ranks before, but rather by the implications it held for their presence here in America, and the repercussions that presence might have for Raoul and Christine's marriage.

The automatic way in which Christine had referred to the Opera Ghost's house as "home", the natural ease with which she had spoken of love for him, disconcerted Father Joe; this was not the claustrophobic relationship of suppressed terror and manipulation that Raoul had privately described to him when he had first entered the de Chagny employ.

"She's still a little shaken," he had explained. "We don't speak of it; I think it makes it easier on her if we're all rather more careful about what we say than we might usually be."

He had looked with earnest gravity into the priest's eyes. "I love my wife very much, Father," he said quietly. "All I want is for her to be happy."

The intensity of Raoul's devotion to Christine was what had originally endeared them to Father Joe so deeply. He had always privately worried that Christine did not adore her husband as he so obviously adored her, but never until now, when he understood the full depth of their relationship, had he truly feared for their marriage.

But now ... now he was afraid.

Afraid that the lure of the mysterious shadow of thirteen years ago could once again draw Christine away from the law of God and her love for her family.

Christine collapsed onto her bed and closed her eyes, fighting to draw breath and retain her composure. The recitation of what had occurred on that one fateful night under the Opera had awakened memories she had thought buried forever, and aroused feelings she had never thought to feel again.

How could she ever have described that night with justice? The softness of the candlelight, the gentleness of Erik's touch, the slow beauty of the music spilling from his hands, the absolute feeling of security and peace in the dim, warmly-lit tableau of her bedroom with the scent of candle wax and sandalwood soothing around her ... never before had she felt like that, with anybody.

Never before, and never since.

Christine laid a hand against her heart in an effort to stop it thumping, forcing herself to draw slow, deep breaths, tangling her other hand in her hair.

She started up as a cursory knock came on her door and Meg breezed in, bearing an armful of dresses, her curly blonde hair escaping from its pins and forming a halo around her head as usual.

"It's so lovely out there," she said happily. "I've just been out walking in Central Park, it's a beautiful park really, all trees and grass and fresh air, and it's so lovely and warm. What do you say we go out together at some time when you don't have other plans made for you, get a bit of colour back into your cheeks?"

Christine pressed a hand to her face. "Do I look so awful?" she asked.

Meg laughed and deposited the dresses on the bed. "Oh, don't be silly, not awful at all! You're just still a little pale ... I daresay it's from that appalling voyage."

She laid the dresses carefully over the back of a chair, one by one. "Which do you want for this afternoon?" she asked cheerfully. "I was thinking the blue, but ..."

"This afternoon?" 

Meg looked up in surprise. "Rehearsal, Christine. You've to be there in, oh, about an hour ... I was just wondering what you wanted to wear." She sat down on the bed next to Christine, looking closely at her. "Are you sure you're all right, Christine?"

"Of course." Christine forced a smile. "I'd just forgotten that I had a rehearsal." She sighed and pulled a handful of hair up away from her neck. "Goodness, I'm a mess." She looked away from the mirror to see Meg still watching her with furrowed eyebrows, and forced herself to walk jauntily over to the chair where Meg had laid out her dresses. "Now ... what was it you were saying about the blue?"

__

~ Three hours later ~ 

Christine sank down into an overstuffed armchair and released her hair from its pins; it had been a hard rehearsal, and her head was aching mercilessly, as it did so often these days. She closed her eyes and massaged her temples in a vain effort to make her head stop pounding, and failing utterly.

She sat there, her eyes closed, for a long time, remembering other places and other people. _A dressing room much like this ..._

Slowly, her hand groping automatically for the dresser to support herself, she rose and crossed the room to sit in the small hard-backed chair in front of her vanity. Studying herself in the mirror, she sighed and absently reached for a pot of face cream. She was thirty two this year, and if she was honest, she had to admit that she looked every day of it today. Deep circles shadowed her eyes, testimony to her regular sleepless nights, and she looked pale, even behind the expensive make-up Meg insisted on applying every morning.

The faintest rustle behind her made her turn, without much energy; she was too tired to give much consideration to a stray mouse or badly-balanced prop.

Then her eyes met his, dark and unfathomable, and for a moment everything clicked into focus, cruelly clear, the colours too bright, the lines too sharp, the expression in his eyes bringing her to her knees ...

And then everything went black.

Erik stared at her for a moment, shock, contrition and utter misery etched on his face, before finally kneeling beside her and lifting her into his arms for the first time in thirteen years.

Christine awoke sometime later to the light of a single candle casting strange, flickering shadows on the walls.

She lay there in silence for a few moments as her mind slowly registered her surroundings; she became aware of a blanket tucked around her and the softness of a couch underneath her. She sat up slowly, her mind whirling; she vaguely remembered Erik's arms around her and his voice coaxing her back to consciousness. 

She felt a glass of something being pressed into her hands; she took it unquestioningly, taking a sip and wincing at the sharp taste.

"What is it?" she asked, her voice faintly hoarse.

"Brandy." 

His voice revived her as no alcohol could have done; suddenly she was keenly awake, the brandy bitter in her mouth, every nerve in her body at once acutely aware of how near he was to her. 

__

Thirteen years ... 

"I had rather hoped that after thirteen years, you might have got over fainting at the sight of me," he said finally. He paused, and she sensed that in the dim light he was looking at her, his gaze softening. He turned away, and the moment was lost. "Evidently not."

Unsure of what reply she could make, she turned to look around. "Where are we?" she asked suddenly.

"Your dressing room." He laughed softly. "It has a certain irony, I suppose ... my apologies, there isn't a suitable mirror ... I suppose I should have commissioned one, had I thought of it."

Christine glanced at him. She could tell that beneath his flippant facade, he was actually very nervous, and she felt her heart go out to him. _ She had forgotten how it felt to be so close to him ..._

As if sensing and becoming uncomfortable under her scrutiny, he turned away from her and crossed the room to stand at the window. 

"How do you feel?" he asked without turning to look at her.

"I'm fine," she said. "It was just a surprise ..."

"It's that damn corset," he said abruptly. "You're laced into it so tightly that you can barely breathe. God alone knows how you manage to sing with it that tight ..."

Christine flushed and looked away.

"It was just a surprise," she repeated softly.

She could sense him drawing his courage together as he repeated her words, very softly, surprisingly gently. "A surprise?"

"I ... I thought ..."

"That I was dead?" He laughed softly, and she heard him settle into a chair opposite the couch. "Now, Christine, what sort of ghost would I be if I allowed myself to do a thing like that?"

She smiled ever so faintly, but her silence evidently disconcerted him. He rose from his chair and lit another candle, lifting some of the oppressive darkness.

There was a short pause, in which Erik struggled with his courage.

"Then ..." He cleared his throat. "You didn't recognise the music?" 

Christine stared at him blankly, and he retreated into a darker part of the room, trying to quell his disappointment. "I thought you might have done."

"Erik, I ..."

"Of course not," he interrupted, ashamed of himself for entertaining such infantile hopes. "I know you would not have come if you had."

Christine felt a wave of pity at his ever-present self-doubt, and without thinking she rose from the couch and moved to stand beside him.

"Oh, no! I would ... I mean ... I ..." She coloured in embarrassment, and Erik's heart wrenched within him as he thought desperately how lovely she was, and how he longed to take her into his arms again.

"Of course I recognised it," she said at last, overcoming her confusion to look him in the face for the first time. "How could I not have?"

Suddenly realising just how very close she was standing to him, and no longer able to bear such proximity with equanimity, Erik crossed the room under the pretence of lighting another oil lamp, before realising that the extra light made the room uncomfortably bright and extinguishing the flame.

Christine stayed where she was, recognising Erik's discomfort at her nearness.

"It's beautiful," she said, very softly. "I meant it when I told the press that it was the music that had brought me here."

She saw Erik's shoulders stiffen and hesitated, wondering if she had upset him. Back in Paris, so many years ago, she had been accustomed to spend hours analysing every nuance of her behaviour in order to determine what she had said or done to distress him, and usually failing to find the answer; his moods were so utterly incomprehensible.

"Yes, well ..." In the dim candlelight, she saw him turn his back to her, rigid with tension. "It's passable."

She laughed involuntarily in spite of the tension tangible in the air between them.

"Only passable?!"

She saw Erik flinch at the sound of her voice, and her smile faded. Crossing the room with light tread, still a little unsteady, she reached out and took his hand, feeling him stiffen as she did so.

"It's beautiful," she said quietly, sincerity in her voice, looking earnestly up into his face.

He stared at her, anguished longing raw in his eyes, for a moment which seemed to Christine to last an eternity and be over too soon. Christine felt his fingers tighten convulsively around her own and, barely aware of the action, felt herself take a step towards him and bring her free hand up to his shoulder. She felt hesitant fingers touch her jaw and tilt her face upwards -

There came a knock at the door.

Erik sprang away from Christine with his peculiarly catlike grace, his eyes searching the small room wildly for any means of escape, catching Christine off balance; she stumbled, and it was only the speed with which he caught her that prevented her from falling.

"Miss Christine?" called a voice from outside. "It's Jessica, I've come to see if you needed any help getting changed after rehearsal."

Erik withdrew his arms from Christine and crossed the dressing room to put distance between them, every fibre of him in utter turmoil.

Her heart hammering painfully in her chest, Christine grasped the side of the sofa for support and called out, "No, thank you, Jessica ... I shall be out soon." Erik felt his heart twist within him with useless adoration at her attempt at an English accent.

"There is something more, Miss ..." the voice called hesitantly.

Christine drew a hand back through her hair, tousled and coming loose from its pins. "Yes?"

"Mr Hammerstein said I was to tell you that your husband arrived on the last boat, and will be here to pick you up in a few minutes."

Christine almost laughed at the hideousness of it. She turned involuntarily to Erik, and saw a flash of pain in his eyes before he turned abruptly away from her.

"Thank you, Jessica," she called at last, and the following pattering of feet along the corridor told her that Jessica had no further bombshells to deliver.

Erik turned back to look at Christine, and she felt herself colouring scarlet under the unfathomable darkness of his eyes. She broke their eye contact and looked away, raising a hand to her hair in embarrassment.

"I'd ..." She gestured meaninglessly towards the door. "I'd better go."

Erik nodded, stifling the intensity of his anguished disappointment. _God, she was so lovely_ ...

He looked away from her and picked up a cloak which she had evidently earlier in the day draped over the arm of the sofa. Christine could not help noticing that wherever he moved about the room, he kept his back steadily to the mirror; apparently he was still as self-conscious as he had been in Paris all those years ago.

"You had better wear this," he told her, offering it to her without touching her. "It is cold outside, and your voice must be at its best for the opening tomorrow night."

Christine accepted the cloak in silence, nodding her thanks.

"You will be there?" she asked, twisting the cloak in her hands.

He inclined his head in silence.

"Will I see you?"

"Perhaps."

She nodded slowly, and slipped the cloak on, tying it closely around her neck at the front. She looked back at him for one long moment, then turned and made her way towards the door.

His voice called her back.

"Christine ..." he stopped suddenly, a sudden memory of her eyes, staring at him with absolute horror, rising in his mind, and in that moment, his nerve completely deserted him.

"Yes?" Her voice eager, hopeful, nervous.

Ashamed of his own cowardice, he turned away from her and passed a hand across his face.

"Good luck tomorrow," he said quietly.

Disappointment and a kind of emptiness filling her, Christine could only nod through a sudden lump in her throat.

As he heard the door close softly behind her, Erik sank into the chair she had sat in and buried his face in his hands.


End file.
